


Constellation Gathering

by kurgaya



Series: Hallucinogenic Gentleman [10]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Developing Relationship, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/F, Female Ichigo, Female Tōshirō, Fluff, Poetry, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3730462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a thousand cranes isn't needed for a wish to come true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constellation Gathering

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know that this series is now a year old? :O
> 
> This story is set after _Expression and Investigation_ but before any prompts including Chihiro and Kouhei in _Desire Rearranged_. It is also Corisanna's fault.
> 
> Please enjoy :)
> 
> This story can also be found on FF.net, livejournal, and tumblr.

 

“I want every piece of me to crash into every piece of you, I swear to god that’s how they make stars.”

— Mary Lambert, from _Sarasvatī_

 

 

 

 **001** | the first is an idea, an _exploding star_ before her

It’s Matsumoto who suggests it, merely a passing thought on a list of possibilities. Tōshirō is hardly listening at the time, nodding along in all the right places as her lieutenant prattles on. Only some of what comes out Matsumoto’s mouth is syntactically understandable, and less is worth listening to, but Tōshirō appreciates that the woman is just trying to help pass the time. This is the sole reason that the hospital-bound captain has yet to demand more of the insufferable peace and quiet that characterises the Fourth Division, and it is why, when Matsumoto’s tirade whizzes over the idea, that Tōshirō manages to catch it.

“Wait,” she says, holding up one thickly bandaged hand to cut through the happy bubble of language. “Origami?”

Strawberry-blonde hair seems to frazzle as the lieutenant pauses, but the interruption does not offend Matsumoto. Rather, she brightens at the interest, her eyes of opal shining in the beautiful mischief that defines her.

“Why not? You need something to do with your hands to keep you busy – and I don’t mean paperwork,” she amends, catching her captain’s twitch of dispute. “ _Really_ , captain, you’d do paperwork on your deathbed if you could.”

Tōshirō rather doubts that, considering she imagines that her deathbed will be dirt and blood and the gore of failure splattered across her body, but she lets the comment slide. Instead, she encourages the conversation away from Matsumoto’s guilty flutter, returning their thoughts to the problem at hand.

“But – origami? What use would that have?”

The lieutenant smiles again, puffing away a particularly rebellious lock of hair. “Hobbies don’t _have_ to be practical, captain,” she teases, earning a flat _I am aware of this_ stare from the shinigami enwrapped in November silvers upon the bed. “You never know, it might be fun! Think of all of the things you could create.”

Tōshirō’s minute of deep contemplation only yields a single answer.

“…Cranes?”

“Ooh, you should make a thousand!” Matsumoto coos, apparently missing the captain’s sheer ignorance into the possibilities of the origami world. “You should make them multi-coloured and give them all little eyes and tail feathers. I’m sure the human world would mass-produce them – they mass-produce everything, don’t they? It’s so _handy_. I’ll have to some find on my next trip to Karakura.”

Decided, she claps her hands together gleefully. Then she jumps to her feet, clearly intent on carrying out her new job immediately, and only pauses in her hasty farewell when her captain’s slow call rolls over from the hospital bed.

“Matsumoto,” Tōshirō states, stressing the syllables to emphasise her vexation. “You haven’t been assigned to Karakura.”

“Are you sure?” the lieutenant chimes, adding her infamous wink as if it would have _any_ effect on her superior officer. She seems to vibrate in the doorway, her ashy reiatsu buzzing like a million thousand volcanos about to erupt into a giggly, childish mess.

Tōshirō sighs, unable to rub her temples under Unohana’s strict instructions not to aggravate her injuries.

“Fine,” she drones, recognising a defeat when she sees one. “Just – don’t return with anything outlandish.”

Matsumoto squeals, leaving Tōshirō to wonder what calamity she has just allowed to reign free through the human world. Her lieutenant is _terrifying_ in a shopping centre, and Tōshirō sighs again as she settles on her back, hoping that Matsumoto’s victorious return will not disturb her rest too soon.

Hence, she is surprised to wake naturally, lured from her sleep by nothing more than the pitter-patter of the healers scurrying through the corridors. Her surroundings are dark, guarded from the setting sun by the great curtains drawn about her bed and untouched by the light of any visitors, the bedside lamp still cool from the hours since use. Tōshirō rolls over into a more comfortable position, pleased to note that her body does not mind, and has nearly drifted back into slumber before noticing the package on the table.

She reaches for it, recognising the trace of Matsumoto’s dust. Inside is a helping stack of thin, brightly coloured pieces of paper, and Tōshirō flicks through the pile with a curious eye, marvelling as the colours vary from a deep blue at the top, to the yellow of a sun exploding at the bottom. There must be a hundred sheets in the stack – two hundred, maybe three – and the captain smiles before closing her eyes, figuring that she _might as well_ use them now that they’re there.

In the morning, of course. For now, sleep is calling, and she dreams in all colours of the rainbow, possibilities exploding into existence like the cosmos before her eyes.

 

 

 

 **002** | the second is a thank you, with tea and _clotted cream_

“Oh,” Tōshirō says the next morning, helping to lay the tray across her lap so that the teapot does not spill. She tucks the origami sheets out of sight, hoping that her latest creation will not be squashed in the coming hours. Matsumoto deserves more than a half-hearted, floppy paper bird. “Thank you, Captain Ukitake – really, you shouldn’t have.”

The elderly captain takes a seat at her bedside, hair glowing with the ethereal air of an angel around the creases of his smile. He is almost as pale as she is, but Tōshirō, at least, can claim blood loss as an excuse.

(Ukitake probably wouldn’t even though he could).

“Ah, it’s no bother Hitsugaya-chan,” he says, patting her knee through the duvet. “I thought you might desire a nice cup of tea while you’re recovering, and since my seventh seat has been baking cakes all morning, I brought some along as well!”

Tōshirō can tell. Cakes, tarts, and all other manners of treats cover the tray. There is hardly room for the teacups, and she wonders if that was the ploy.

“Really, _you shouldn’t have_ ,” she repeats, smothering an expression of horror. The sheer amount of cream that he is expected her to consume is frightening.

Seemingly unaware of her turmoil, Ukitake continues to beam. “I do hope you enjoy them,” he says in an almost singsong manner, checking on the teapot. “I hear that my seventh seat has quite a talent for baking. Tea?”

Tōshirō says _thank you_ for the lack of a better response. She has to give credit where it’s due – the food _looks_ amazing, but that doesn’t make her any more inclined to eat it. If he had set a tray of watermelon down before her, it would be another story entirely. But cakes?

Ukitake sips his tea, blissfully content.

Somehow, Tōshirō doesn’t think this is a battle from which she will escape unscathed.

 

 

 

 **010** | the tenth is the return home, _white starlight_ guiding the way

How to best go about stuffing a growing pile of paper cranes up her sleeves is not a common problem for Tōshirō’s discharge from the Fourth. Usually, she maintains a polite obedience in the face of the healer until her freedom is official, and then returns to the Tenth Division as quickly as possible with nothing more than the clothes upon her back and Hyorinmaru in her grasp.

Now, it seems that her new appreciation for the art of paper folding has backfired on her, and Tōshirō is faced with the possibility of sacrificing her hard work just to return to the comforts of home.

“Dammit,” she mutters, the first utterance of the curse after being released from Unohana’s clutch in the history of the Seireitei. Ten small cranes lay on the bed before her, their brilliant hues staring up at her in question. The newest one sits at the top of the pile, sharp white wings locked in an eternal ‘V’ that looks like a frown from where the crane has flopped upside-down.

She stares back, wondering where to hide them, then stares down at her chest.

Sleeves it is, then.

Nobody so much as bats an eyelash when Tōshirō steps into the Tenth Division, her hands stuffed up the opposite sleeve. Luckily, the shinigami uniform is characterised by large, sweeping folds and ridiculously impractical drapes, so the extra weight goes unnoticed as she glides into her office. Shunpo had been her preferred choice of transport, but when the paper cranes had almost spilled out of her clothing and rained down like jagged rainbow droplets into the street, Tōshirō had decided against it.

The office is empty when she arrives, a fortune she should have expected. Careful manoeuvring gives the cranes a new home in a desk drawer; the previous occupants, including a bill from the Seventh Division that she doesn’t remember paying, are placed on the desk top for further inspection, and so there is plenty of space for the origami sheets as well. Pleased, Tōshirō shuts away her new hobby for another time, immediately resuming her role as a captain as she picks up the mysterious paperwork and sets off to make some tea.

The day is early, so there is plenty to be done. Officers come and go throughout the day, receiving and collecting orders, but Tōshirō remains in her office for hours, tackling paperwork and reports. Matsumoto turns up after the lieutenants’ meeting and then promptly leaves again when Tōshirō waves the ‘forgotten’ paperwork under her nose, and after another round of tea and a contemplative glance at the biscuit tin, Tōshirō decides to stop for the day. Her head is beginning to ache with the remnants of her battle, and her hands, though unbandaged now and only slightly red, aren’t best pleased about her writing-cramp. It is evening now, however, so the captain only feels a little guilty as she tracks through the calendar to cross off another day’s work.

With her extended stay in the Fourth Division, she does not know what the date is, but the first uncrossed box next to Matsumoto’s rushed mark is a big enough clue. Relieved to see that nothing important has been missed over the last week, Tōshirō adds a neat cross, and then runs her fingers over the calendar to check for future dates.

There is little to occur beyond work, so Tōshirō packs up her stuff and wanders home. Her mobile is flashing with a dozen missed calls when she enters her bedroom, but the sole voicemail message Ichigo has left is neither hurried nor urgent, and Tōshirō wonders if Matsumoto had kept the substitute informed of her condition as she slept away unawares in the Fourth.

Smiling, the wintry captain lets her phone ring with Ichigo’s number as she changes from her uniform. The call does not go through but Tōshirō had expected that, so she leaves a message to reassure of her wellbeing and asks after Ichigo’s own, hoping that the human hasn’t overworked herself. If she remembers rightly, Ichigo has just switched jobs to one with better pay but horrendous hours to keep up with her rent and Tōshirō cannot help but wonder if the apartment is worth the hassle. She has yet to visit her girlfriend’s new home or introduce herself to the flatmates, but she is sure it will happen at some point, even if she has to borrow a gigai to exist to the non-aware humans.

Deciding to reserve judgement for now, she tucks the phone into her pocket and ponders over dinner, soothed by the feel of the mobile pressing into her skin. When Ichigo calls, she will be ready to answer, and when Ichigo rants about her manager for an hour ( _after_ being assured that her partner is okay and apologising for not being able to visit due to the _chaos, Tōshirō, absolute chaos!_ of moving house), then Tōshirō is ready for that too.

 

 

 

 **012** | the twelfth is a hello, and a _hint of lavender_ perfume

Tugging the wings of the crane apart to complete its delicate magnificence, Tōshirō is so intent on seeing if her creation will stand freely that she doesn’t notice the marmalade hues or the wildfire reiatsu of her girlfriend until Ichigo has set the teacup on the desk, her golden smile kissing a greeting into Tōshirō’s cheek.

The captain jumps, the crane topples over, and the desk _clunks_ as she knees the drawers in her surprise.

Ichigo laughs. “You smell good,” she says in way of greeting, folding herself over the back of Tōshirō’s chair. She nuzzles her girlfriend’s neck, grinning against the startled thump of her heartbeat, and then adds, “Are you making _cranes_?”

Idly, Tōshirō attempts to stand the crane again as she reaches for the tea that Ichigo has made. “Thank you,” she says, answering the first question. “Matsumoto got it for me. I imagine she was apologising for drinking too much and passing out in my office yesterday.”

“Eh?” is Ichigo’s elegant reply. “Is she okay?”

“Yes,” replies the captain, swatting Ichigo away when her sigh of relief blows a spark of cold air against her neck. “I took her back to my quarters to sleep. She voluntarily completed some paperwork today too, so I let her sign off early to sleep some more.”

“Do you need any help with the rest?” Ichigo asks, leaning away to inspect the papers. There isn’t much more to be done, and Tōshirō informs her other half of this, admitting the reason as to why she was constructing cranes instead of working. Ichigo grins and gives the purple crane a poke, earning a playful scowl from the captain when it tips over again.

“What are you making them for?”

Tōshirō blows across the surface of her tea, shrugging at the question. “No particular reason. Would you like it?”

Ichigo has already scooped up the delicate creature, and is now trying to get it to flap, but at the question, she pauses, giving her girlfriend a considerate look.

“What?” says Tōshirō, and Ichigo reaches over and plonks the crane into her blizzardy hair.

 

 

 

 **017** | the seventeenth is _heartfelt_ , like whispers in the morn

There are fingers threading through her hair, encouraging her to sleep, but the cold sheets of the bed around her is emptiness, and Tōshirō rolls over to scour blearily for the warmth.

“Ssh,” Ichigo is saying, mumbling softly into the silence of her departure. “Go back to sleep. I have to go now, I’ve got work in a couple of hours.”

Tōshirō hums along, only half awake to the sound of her girlfriend’s voice. Ichigo’s reiatsu thrums over the duvet, trailing her lingering touch of fire across the captain’s uncovered shoulder. Welcoming the sensation, Tōshirō blinks into the darkness of her slumber, and she must have slipped away for a second because Zangetsu has appeared on Ichigo’s back when she looks around again.

She mumbles something that might have been a question, and the auburn woman laughs quietly at the words.

“It’s Saturday. Go to sleep, idiot,” Ichigo says, clanking around in a way that suggests she is slipping on her shoes, but Tōshirō cannot be sure through the haze of her dreams. A kiss is dotted into her forehead, and the fingers return briefly to tame her head of snow, and then her girlfriend says something else before leaving, but Tōshirō does not hear the words.

“Crane,” is all she can manage in reply, wanting to motion to the bedside table but unable to find the energy to lift her limbs.

There is movement above her, the rustling of paper, and then nothing more.

 

 

 

 **023** | the twenty-third is a quiet visit, an _assassin_ in the night

Finding Ichigo’s new home is easy enough, despite the size of Fukuoka. The substitute shinigami is a beacon in the midst of the city’s slow routine and grey normality, so Tōshirō merely follows the lightning trail across the rooftops, mapping the streets in the back of her mind. Fukuoka is larger than she expected – Karakura Town is tiny in comparison – so Tōshirō is glad she had chosen not to adopt a gigai for this visit, instead slipping down into the material world like a storm descending with the night, its power unreachable overhead.

She taps on the window with her knuckles, crackling ice across the glass. As Ichigo wrenches out her earphones and lifts a beaming smile towards her, Tōshirō hastily wipes away the arctic smear, aware that explaining the existence of a hand-shaped patch of ice to her non-aware flatmates is the last thing Ichigo needs in the middle of spring.

(Or ever, really).

“Thanks,” whispers the substitute when she opens the window, welcoming her moonlight-shrouded girlfriend inside. Shadows cling to her skin, smudging under her eyes like bruises, but she smiles for Tōshirō as the winter’s breeze slips in through the window and patters down onto the carpet.

“You didn’t have to come over,” Ichigo adds, but with how she seems to slump back onto her bed and wheezes a sigh, the sunny delight upon her face at her partner’s presence fading into a cloudy day of rain, Tōshirō is glad that she has.

“Do you need anything?” she asks, standing a little awkwardly in the centre of the room. It is arranged differently to Ichigo’s bedroom above the Kurosaki Clinic, and Tōshirō is uncertain of where to step in this unfamiliar environment. Nevertheless, watching Ichigo tangle herself in the duvet as she rolls across the bed, the urge to reach over and offer comfort forces away the majority of Tōshirō’s discomfort. Lips dipping into a frown, she slips out of her shoes and tucks them neatly to the side, and unclips Hyorinmaru from her back just as Ichigo says _come here_ , beckoning the captain over.

Tōshirō perches on the bed, dutifully entwining her fingers with Ichigo’s when their hands meet in the gap between them.

“Ergh,” Ichigo says in response to everything unasked. “I had a crap day.”

She tugs her other half closer, encouraging Tōshirō to lie down beside her. With the utmost care, Tōshirō does so, tucking herself into the curve of Ichigo’s body so that they’re merely a breath apart, sharing words from between their lips, mutters almost too quiet to hear.

Outside, headlights of insignificant lives flash by. On the bedside table, a paper crane watches on from the shadows, its wings tipped in the light from the lamp.

“Tell me about it,” Tōshirō says, reaching over to tuck a strand of golden hair away from her girlfriend’s face to reveal a smile on the substitute’s face. The captain flusters briefly, almost embarrassed at having been caught for such a blatant action, but Ichigo’s shine of happiness encourages her on. This intimacy is new for them both, blushes burning in mirrors of their affection, and there is always the possibility of something more.

“How long can you stay?” Ichigo asks, having wound herself around the slighter captain as if to make her stay forever.

Tōshirō doesn’t particularly mind. “I have as long as you need,” she says, and she kisses Ichigo’s nose.

The ginger flutters and laughs and promptly forgets about her day, rolling them over to talk about other things instead – happy things, quiet things, and things that definitely shouldn’t be shared.

 

 

 

 **031** | the thirty-first is the _froth_ of a cappuccino, and the sweetness of surprise

“…so I turn around and want to punch this moron in the _face_ , but I can’t exactly apply Eleventh Division logic to work because my manager would fire me and the police would probably arrest me for _assault_ …”

Tōshirō nods along to the motions of Ichigo’s lips, watching how the rhythm of the gigantic spoon stirring the equally gigantic cup of coffee changes with the rise and fall of her tirade.

“…and the girl I’m on shift with is _not helping_ because she’s just standing there laughing like this is a scene out of a _romcom_ or something, and then as soon as the dick left I went and vented on the washing up – because someone always needs to do the washing up – and my manager was just _standing there_ watching me. I swear I thought she was going to fire me, but then she leans over and asks if I’m okay, because she’s _never seen someone attack the dishes with such ferocity before_ , and she honestly looked a little worried that I might go around murdering customers with a _sponge_ or something…”

Ichigo sighs, apparently satisfied with how well her cappuccino has been stirred, and sets down the spoon. It drips hazelnut cream and dollops of froth onto the saucer, but she pays it no mind, automatically raising the drink to hide the sharp angles of her frown.

Opposite her, Tōshirō continues to sip her slightly smaller cup of tea. The tinkering noises of the coffee shop clink and clank around them, voices rebounding around the cosy space with laughter and joy of stories shared and lives still folding into perfection creases of a creation about to take flight. Curious eyes sweep the room, the captain’s mind abuzz like the whirring of the coffee machines and the steady influx of people through the door.

“I mean, really,” Ichigo continues, the cup chinking back onto the plate to signal her talkative intentions. “It’s not like I was –”

Tōshirō’s abrupt laughter cuts her off, startling them both. Her teacup joins her girlfriend’s on the tray, if only to prevent a spillage as she tries to fight back her amusement.

“What?” Ichigo says, blinking helplessly at the sudden shift of dynamic. “What have I…?”

She lifts her hands to the frothy moustache wobbling along with her speech. A blush blisters across her face as she wipes it off, but she is smiling now, enthused by Tōshirō’s uninhibited laughter.

“I’m sorry,” wheezes the captain, hoping to _god_ that she isn’t about to hiccup. “I’m sorry, go on.”

Ichigo just stares at her with this expression of _wonder_ on her face, and Tōshirō can feel herself blushing in return.

 

 

 

 **050** | the fiftieth is a _daydream_ , halfway between dream and reality

The captains’ meeting is as tedious as ever. Lined up in strict formality with hidden slouches and shrouded yawns of a boredom they all share, the captains listen politely to the droning of their commander. The important news has long since passed, and now only an age-old requirement locks them in the hall; hours pass, dragging on by, and Tōshirō wonders how many paper cranes she could have made in that time.

In her mind, the origami sheet folds in half, then in half again, a process so familiar that cranes are born in her sleep, soaring their jagged angles through her dreams. How many she has made over these last few months is uncountable, and each one is formed more perfect than the last, a constellation of colours ever expanding in its range.

“…Captain Hitsugaya?”

Captain-Commander Yamamoto’s gruff voice reaches her ears, but only her name is distinguishable from his monotonous grumble.

“Yes?” she says, the word sounding more like _um_. Tōshirō dares to look up to gauge the magnitude of her mistake; her superior officer frowns back at her, his small eyes narrowed and his tremendous beard twitching in irritation.

She falters, feeling very small.

“I apologise,” Tōshirō mumbles, averting her gaze. None of the other captains so much as look at her.

The crane taking shape in her mind crumples into failure.

 

 

 

 **059 & 060 **| the fifty-ninth is the _abyss_ of her thoughts, but the sixtieth is a _spring kiss_ chasing away her fears

Matsumoto was right, all of those months ago. Having something to do with her hands – something methodical and automatic, easy and relentless – is soothing, and this is definitely a time when she needs to relax. Shoulders hunched beneath a sleeping yukata and hands moving restlessly, the captain works silently in the dark of her quarters; Ichigo is slumbering away a hectic day beside her, but Tōshirō cannot sleep.

Tomorrow (today, perhaps, as the clock ticks on), the Shiba family are gathering, and Tōshirō has been invited. In fact, both her girlfriend and her family have invited her numerous times before, but the duties of her division take precedence, and this is the first time where her schedule has been free. Ichigo was thrilled to finally have the opportunity to drag her ‘workaholic’ girlfriend to meet the extended family, but Tōshirō cannot claim the same.

She is sure she will appreciate the company of the Shiba family, as hot-headed and unpredictable as they are.

Whether or not they will say the same for her is the question.

Ichigo insists that she is fretting over nothing, and Tōshirō recognises that this is likely to be true, but she cannot shake the apprehension as it festers in her gut, so instead of sleeping her worries away, she folds paper cranes.

The room is dark for Ichigo’s sake, but Tōshirō does not need the light. Origami cranes are second nature to her now, almost an obsession in the eyes of some, but they are comforting when nothing else works, and they do not poke or prod or question or _pity_ when woes unravel from her tongue.

The captain sighs into the darkness, sprinkling an icy dust into the room. The snowflakes flutter down, dotting across the little figure in her hands; the crane does not shiver at the wintry touch, but Ichigo grumbles through her slumber and tucks her arm away, burying further under the duvet.

Tōshirō smiles and sets the crane aside, collecting another sheet. It could be pink in the moonlight but it could be anything too, and she cares not to the colour as she begins to fold. Beside her, Ichigo moves again, emitting a sound of growing cognisance into the night. Despite the innocence of her actions, Tōshirō reaches out to sooth her girlfriend back into her dreams with a guilty hurriedness, and promptly slices her fingertips across the paper’s edge. Cursing herself for the blunder, she abandons the bed and discards the crane, tiptoeing off into the bathroom to wash away the blood.

A quick healing spell later, the cut has stitched itself back together, but the kido can do nothing for the shadows under her eyes and the bird’s nest of her hair, slumped with exhaustion in random directions.

“Get a grip,” Tōshirō hisses, splashing water onto her face. “This is ridiculous.”

The bedroom light flickers on, further revealing her shaggy complexion to the bathroom mirror as Ichigo pads into the room. The yawning substitute takes one look at her unravelled girlfriend before sighing, tugging Tōshirō’s yukata with a thunderous yawn.

“Come on, Tōsh,” she rumbles, plastering herself against her girlfriend as if Tōshirō’s smaller figure is the only thing keeping her up. “You need to sleep.”

“I will,” the other insists, watching Ichigo’s doubtful eye roll in the mirror. “I was just –”

A kiss interrupts the excuse, and then another makes her forget whatever she had been about to say. No further words are exchanged between them, but Tōshirō welcomes the touch for everything it says while their tongues are failing them – _relax_ , _it’s fine_ , _they’ll love you_ , and _I love you_ with another beckoning tug of fabric.

Ichigo whines at the call of the bed enticing her back to sleep, and Tōshirō rolls her eyes.

 _Fine_ , says her reflection, frowning at the marmalade blob in the mirror. _But I’ll blame you if it all goes wrong_.

The next kiss is followed with a smile.

 _It won’t go wrong, you’ll see_.

 

 

 

 **078** | the seventy-eighth is _endless_ laughter, and trouble in the kitchen

“ _How_ can you be so _bad_ at this? You _lead_ a division, make paper cranes in your _sleep_ , and can _fly through the air_ , but you can’t _cook_?” Ichigo exclaims through a spluttering cough, fanning away the ball of smoke that erupts from the casserole dish. What is supposed to be a lasagne is sitting on the kitchen counter, but it appears to have transformed into a brick at some unknown interval in the oven. Now Ichigo stares at it as if chucking it through the window is its only viable use.

Tōshirō scowls, feeling insult on behalf of the dish. It may be a smoking, charred mess, but lasagne is a messy dish anyway, and it _may_ be edible.

“Don’t even think about it,” says Ichigo, noticing the twitch of the spatula in Tōshirō’s hand. “It’s unsalvageable and if you poke it, it’ll probably bite.”

Obediently, the captain passes the spatula into her girlfriend’s waiting grasp, and then scowls even more when Ichigo throws the utensil into the sink.

“It won’t bite,” Tōshirō assures, although she has to waft away a thick smog of smoke to say this.

Ichigo’s huff of laughter is humourless. “Have you _seen it_?”

An eye roll, then a contemplative pause as the captain considers the state of the lasagne. “Your oven is temperamental.”

“Your _cooking_ is temperamental.”

They glare at each other until their frowns lift up into smiles, and their anger lulls away into laughter. Then they turn as one to the lasagne and watch it sizzle and burn.

“We could make it again,” Tōshirō suggests, but Ichigo dismisses that idea with a laugh.

“Hell no. You’ll burn the house down.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Hyorinmaru is perfectly capable of preventing that.”

“Oh yeah, that makes me feel _loads_ better. How _exactly_ would I explain that it my flatmates? ‘My girlfriend set fire to the house while cooking a lasagne – but _don’t worry_ , a gigantic invisible _ice dragon_ swooped down and _saved the day_ , so everything is _fine_.’”

They turn to the lasagne again. The casserole dish _cracks_ under the heat of their glares.

“We could get take out?” Ichigo suggests.

Tōshirō’s blank reply is answer enough to that question.

 

 

 

 **084** | the eighty-fourth is an _enigma_ , but many things are

The first clue should have been the fact that Matsumoto actually stays in the office and works _all morning_ , but Tōshirō is far too mesmerised by this development to make the connection. At first, she is sceptical of her lieutenant’s behaviour, but Matsumoto still procrastinates by rolling around the sofa in denial of her responsibilities despite occasionally filling into the paperwork, so Tōshirō considers it a blessing and thinks little of it.

This is clearly a mistake.

“Hey caaaaaaptain,” comes the call, a jubilant chime just after lunch. Matsumoto is flopped over the sofa, her chin propped up by the armrest, and when she grins, she seems to lose twenty years in age, transforming into a troublesome child again.

“What?” Tōshirō replies, only glancing up to roll her eyes and then returning her gaze to the report.

There is a giggle from the sofa. Wisely, Tōshirō puts down her tea next to the crane that sits permanently on her desk. It is such an off-yellow creation that her daffodil-filled office is the only place where it can find a home.

“What are you getting Ichigo-san for your anniversary?” the lieutenant asks, cooing at whatever romantic idea drifts through the space in her mind where the paperwork should be. “I can’t believe you’ve almost been together for a year now – it’s so sweet!”

Tōshirō’s thoughts grind to a halt.

“Oh,” says Matsumoto.

“Oh god,” says Tōshirō. How a year has passed since solving the puzzle box and the Shakespearian clue is anybody’s guess, and as the wintry captain reaches over for the calendar to check the date, she almost doesn’t believe it. Nevertheless, her lieutenant is correct, and now only a week remains until the date in which she stepped through Ichigo’s window and bumbled her way through Romeo’s famous line.

An _ohgodwhatdoIdo_ expression melts through the icy precision of Tōshirō’s complexion, and across the room, Matsumoto cringes at the sight of it.

“Don’t panic,” she says, the previous teasing in her tone eradicated by a calming, serious tone. “You’ve got plenty of time, captain.”

“I’m not panicking,” Tōshirō replies, shoving the words through gritted teeth. She sets the calendar back down as if it’s made of glass, and then ever so slowly turns back to her tea. Inwardly, she is definitely panicking, but Matsumoto doesn’t need physical confirmation of this truth.

What is she going to get for Ichigo? How important will this milestone in their relationship be to the substitute? Will she be expecting anything? Anything in particular? What do humans usually exchange on such days?

“I… will think of something,” she declares, social norms and questions whizzing through her mind. Asking Ichigo directly is out of the question, so some research will have to be done. But where to start? What limits should be place upon her search criteria? How much money should she be spending? What is a socially acceptable gift to give on this occasion?

Maybe she _should_ ask Ichigo. But how?

“Directly,” says her lieutenant, reading the thoughts straight from her face. A lock of amber hair twiddles around her finger, and she smiles when Tōshirō lifts one silvery eyebrow. “I’m sure Ichigo would rather you ask her than worry about it, hmm?”

Tōshirō blinks, considering Matsumoto’s words. Realising the truth of this statement, tension eases from her shoulders and she nods, somewhat weakly, as she imagines Ichigo’s reaction to her concerns.

 _Man, Tōshirō, your hair will turn grey if you don’t stop with all this worrying_.

In reply, Tōshirō’s response would be a highly predictable but still outrageously deadpan, _I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that my hair is white_.

_Yeah, and?_

_White, Ichigo. White_.

And Ichigo would simply smile like the sun; a star burning far away, combining molten hues of gold and orange into a supernova shine across the cosmos. Tōshirō would be helpless to stop her, just as she is cannot help but wish for an eternity together, their lives spinning simultaneously throughout time, planets ever turning about the sun. Ichigo is a constellation that only Tōshirō can see, and Tōshirō would give her the world if she could – if it were possible to pull down the sky and use it to blanket them in the love that she feels.

But how can she find a gift to express this?

How can she find a gift that is worthy of the sun?

 

 

 

 **099** | the ninety-ninth is _kiss_ of promises to come

She traces her fingertips across the careful folding, hoping it will be enough. The crane is small, as they always are, but alone on the desk it seems smaller than usual, more delicate and vulnerable to inquisitive eyes. Pale, paper cut hands pat the little creature, and then gather up the last of the work scattered about the office. One last glance bids the room farewell, and though she hesitates upon the solitary crane, there is nothing for Tōshirō to do now but wait, hope, and entertain herself with imaginings of her girlfriend’s expression, confusion and wonder rolled into one.

Pleased with her success, the captain flicks off the light and shuts the door behind her, ensuring that the flurry of snow in her wake holds off until she is hidden. She hopes Ichigo appreciates puzzles as she does, or else this plan will crumble before it can take flight. A backup plan has been devised for this day, but Tōshirō does not wish for an excuse to use it. The puzzle should keep Ichigo busy for a little while – that is, assuming she has brushed up on her Shakespearian knowledge like Tōshirō kept prompting her too.

If she hasn’t – well.

 _The course of true love never did run smooth_.

 

 

 

 **100** | and the hundredth is _anonymous_ , waiting for a name upon a desk –

Love, perhaps, and perseverance, a wish up to the sky.

Or a gathering of constellations, a fated cosmic sigh.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Italicised words in the titles are colours from dulux's [colour atlas](http://www.dulux.com.au/specifier/colour/colour-atlas/) and the quote in 099 is from A Midsummer Night’s Dream – Act 1, Scene 2 :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment as you go~


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